mind, like his sight, was taken by the colourful pattern of the leaves on the green sward, then it was swamped again by the knowledge that was cutting into the verycentre of his being: he was a man under suspicion and, if found guilty, might go to prison, as a sex offender. He stumbled into the rock garden. The gentians were blooming vividly. Flowers that he loved for their intensity of colour. But he had to turn away. The very intensity of that deep blue was making his eyes water. God damn her! Everything he saw or did brought him back to her, and to Paris.
Chapter Four
They set off on their Rodin pilgrimage on the first morning of their stay in Paris. It was Robbie who dubbed it a pilgrimage.
Clarinda, they were soon to find, had an additional agenda. ‘Can we go first to the rue du Cherche-Midi?’ she asked. She had her own map and a notebook in which she had written down the various places in Paris she wanted to see, most of them having come from books lent to her by Cormac.
‘The rue du Cherche-Midi?’ he repeated, then nodded, following the tracking of her mind. He was quite willing to indulge her whim, if it could be so described. He always found enthusiasm difficult to resist and hers was palpable, almost mesmeric.
‘Gwen John lived there,’ Clarinda explained to the others.
‘Gwen John,’ echoed Cathy, one of the girls.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know Gwen John!’ reproved Robbie, ‘Tut, tut. Such ignorance.’
‘Gwen John was a painter, a wonderful painter, sister of Augustus, but better in my opinion,’ declared Clarinda, leading the way, map in hand, leaving the rest of the group to straggle untidily behind. ‘She’s been compared to Modigliani, hasn’t she, Cormac?’
‘I believe so. Her work is very quiet,’ he told the others. ‘Very intense and delicate.’
‘What’s this Gwen woman got to do with it?’ grumbled Sue, friend of Cathy. ‘I thought it was Rodin we were meant to be after.’
‘Apart from being a painter,’ said Clarinda over her shoulder, ‘she was a model of Rodin’s.’
‘There’s no holding our Clarrie once she gets going,’ said Robbie, lengthening his stride to catch up with her.
Their hotel was not far from the rue du Cherche-Midi. They reached it in a few steps.
‘Number 87,’ said Clarinda. ‘Top floor.’
They gazed up at the top of the four-floor typical Parisian apartment building of the nineteenth century with its long windows and narrow wrought-iron balconies.
‘What’s that supposed to do for you?’ asked Sue.
‘I like to see where people lived,’ returned Clarinda, ‘so that I can imagine them coming along the street, climbing the stairs to their room. It was in that room up there that she painted a number of her most famous paintings.’ From her notebook she produced a postcard depicting a basket chair and simple table on which rested a small bowl of flowers, the scene lit by filtered light coming through the muslin-curtained window.
‘I can see what you mean by quiet,’ said Cathy. ‘Not much going on in a room like that.’
‘That’s all you know,’ said Clarinda with a small smile.
Cathy made a face behind Clarinda’s back.
‘Let’s move on,’ said Cormac.
‘Can we go next to the rue de l’Université?’ asked Clarinda. ‘Please! I want to see where Rodin had his atelier .’ Cormac had never thought to seek it out himself on previous visits to Paris. He had spent most of his time in the Rodin Museum itself.
‘Rodin had his studio in the rue de l’Université before moving to the Hôtel Biron,’ Clarinda informed Alec McCaffy, the other teacher accompanying the pupils. ‘87. Just like Gwen John in the rue du Cherche-Midi. Lucky number.’
Alec was impressed. ‘They seem to know theirstuff,’ he observed to Cormac. He was pleased to see so many of them armed with maps and appeared to think it was due to his influence since he taught geography. He was happy to freely confess to knowing nothing
Chapter Four
They set off on their Rodin pilgrimage on the first morning of their stay in Paris. It was Robbie who dubbed it a pilgrimage.
Clarinda, they were soon to find, had an additional agenda. ‘Can we go first to the rue du Cherche-Midi?’ she asked. She had her own map and a notebook in which she had written down the various places in Paris she wanted to see, most of them having come from books lent to her by Cormac.
‘The rue du Cherche-Midi?’ he repeated, then nodded, following the tracking of her mind. He was quite willing to indulge her whim, if it could be so described. He always found enthusiasm difficult to resist and hers was palpable, almost mesmeric.
‘Gwen John lived there,’ Clarinda explained to the others.
‘Gwen John,’ echoed Cathy, one of the girls.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know Gwen John!’ reproved Robbie, ‘Tut, tut. Such ignorance.’
‘Gwen John was a painter, a wonderful painter, sister of Augustus, but better in my opinion,’ declared Clarinda, leading the way, map in hand, leaving the rest of the group to straggle untidily behind. ‘She’s been compared to Modigliani, hasn’t she, Cormac?’
‘I believe so. Her work is very quiet,’ he told the others. ‘Very intense and delicate.’
‘What’s this Gwen woman got to do with it?’ grumbled Sue, friend of Cathy. ‘I thought it was Rodin we were meant to be after.’
‘Apart from being a painter,’ said Clarinda over her shoulder, ‘she was a model of Rodin’s.’
‘There’s no holding our Clarrie once she gets going,’ said Robbie, lengthening his stride to catch up with her.
Their hotel was not far from the rue du Cherche-Midi. They reached it in a few steps.
‘Number 87,’ said Clarinda. ‘Top floor.’
They gazed up at the top of the four-floor typical Parisian apartment building of the nineteenth century with its long windows and narrow wrought-iron balconies.
‘What’s that supposed to do for you?’ asked Sue.
‘I like to see where people lived,’ returned Clarinda, ‘so that I can imagine them coming along the street, climbing the stairs to their room. It was in that room up there that she painted a number of her most famous paintings.’ From her notebook she produced a postcard depicting a basket chair and simple table on which rested a small bowl of flowers, the scene lit by filtered light coming through the muslin-curtained window.
‘I can see what you mean by quiet,’ said Cathy. ‘Not much going on in a room like that.’
‘That’s all you know,’ said Clarinda with a small smile.
Cathy made a face behind Clarinda’s back.
‘Let’s move on,’ said Cormac.
‘Can we go next to the rue de l’Université?’ asked Clarinda. ‘Please! I want to see where Rodin had his atelier .’ Cormac had never thought to seek it out himself on previous visits to Paris. He had spent most of his time in the Rodin Museum itself.
‘Rodin had his studio in the rue de l’Université before moving to the Hôtel Biron,’ Clarinda informed Alec McCaffy, the other teacher accompanying the pupils. ‘87. Just like Gwen John in the rue du Cherche-Midi. Lucky number.’
Alec was impressed. ‘They seem to know theirstuff,’ he observed to Cormac. He was pleased to see so many of them armed with maps and appeared to think it was due to his influence since he taught geography. He was happy to freely confess to knowing nothing
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